by S. C. Emmett
Consequently, he did not bother to scratch at the lintel as was his custom when entering the Jonwa’s smallest sitting-room. Most days it pleased him to herald his arrival with a cat’s claw-sound, but today his object was surprise. He found exactly what he suspected he would, in most regards.
Slatted wooden blinds cunningly designed as a partition angled half-open; beyond them a shaded portico looked upon a dry-garden of spiny succulents and stepping-stones in a river of smooth multicolored pebbles. This early in the afternoon the light had not taken on the customary, heavy oppression just before a summer downpour, but the air was electric with expectation and humidity in equal measure nonetheless.
Caught while leaning close to speak in Komor Yala’s ear, Su Junha straightened, her primrose sleeve lifted to her mouth to hide a smile. Yala also smiled gently, abstractly, but Takshin could tell she was not listening to the girl, merely performing an appropriate expression. A ghostly Khir gaze, charcoal-fringed with thick lashes, came to rest upon him with some startlement.
His usual sullen fury retreated almost immediately, backing into its cage within his liver, and he found he could breathe again. So he essayed a small, tight smile of his own, and set himself to fret Yala into looking a little less wounded.
“There she is,” he said, perhaps a trifle too loudly, and chose a square of bare flooring somewhat in front of her to sink down upon. Not directly before, as if he were a retainer seeking a favor or a merchant longing to show his wares to a noble, but slightly diagonally, so she did not have to look upon his scars.
But not too diagonal, because looking at his ugliness did not seem to upset her. The hoop in his left ear, gleaming gold, was tangible proof. Touching its satiny weight was always a surprise; he expected it to be gone each time, like anything else pleasant in his life.
“Third Prince Garan Takshin.” Yala’s expression did not change, and she simply murmured the formal greeting. “How pleasant to see you.”
“Lie not to me, Komor Yala.” Takshin folded himself down, waving aside Hansei Liyue’s hurried attempt to find a cushion for royal buttocks. He chose to disdain such a comfort each time he visited this room, to drive home that he was not a guest and could leave at any moment. The refrain of a romantic, tragedy-soaked song currently famous in the Theater District lingered upon his tongue, but he did not attempt to sing, merely half-chanted it in the laziest, most bored, most formal Zhaon he could manage. “Unless you wish to crush my throat and send me to my pyre.”
The Hansei girl all but gasped, her own sleeve— yellow as sunshine crushflowers— rising to her mouth. Yala glanced at her, slim fingers toying with a scrap of roseate silk pinned next to a sunset-colored swatch of cotton. Her sewing basket sat obediently next to her knees, half-open and showing gradations of neatly wrapped thread as well as the gleam of metal implements used for gentle embroidery.
It was ill-bred of him to mention pyres while Komor Yala was still in pale mourning; still, his aim was to irritate her out of sadness. Unfortunately, the sally failed; his cavalry found no trace of the enemy, and Yala simply gazed at him silently, as if she had forgotten what politeness came next.
So. A change of tactics was called for. “You should thank me for not singing,” he said, making plans to punish himself for a misstep later. “And greet me with less cursed formality, too.”
A spark of interest brightened in her pale gaze. “Perhaps some tea for our guest?” She made a soft, restrained gesture and Lady Liyue bowed like a supple flower-stem, rising in the peculiar, fluid manner of a well-bred Zhaon girl.
“I am not a guest,” Takshin said haughtily. “I live here. But yes, tea, and my thanks for your hospitality. What are you about, Lady Spyling?”
“Sewing, Third Prince.” She acknowledged the thoroughly visible nature of her reply with a shadow of a wry smile, indicating the basket with a second graceful motion. “Or attempting to. I am out of sorts in this heat, it appears. Perhaps you are as well?”
“I am in exactly the temper I choose to be, little lure.” His favorite name for her, with the stress laid upon the second-to-last syllable to turn the word into its feminine self just as slim and lightfoot as her. “Remember that. Are you wishing for a new dress, then?” As if he was a courtesan’s patron, asking her which gift she would prefer.
Now it was Su Junha who almost gasped, but she was of sterner stuff than the Hansei girl and glared daggers at Takshin before dropping her gaze, perhaps remembering his reputation. Still, she was protective of Yala, and that warmed him clear through. Both young ladies wore wide, pale mourning sashes, too, well past the time they could have decently left such appurtenances in a ceduan box.
For that, he was willing to forgive much.
The lady herself did not rise to his impoliteness. “I have many, yet wear only one.”
“Khao Cao.” Oh, it was quite a scholarly reference, though the man who brushed it had been a general known for his cruelty— and for mourning the death of another man’s wife with such flagrant verse as to spark a duel near a barn full of nesting split-tail brightbirds. Only Khao’s death had saved him from indecency, and now some few of his quotations were considered fit for the education of young minds— once they were suitably neutered, of course, as eunuchs were largely considered safe despite much evidence to the contrary in history and literature. “You are in a terrible mood, to be quoting him.”
“You find him objectionable? But he is of the Hundreds, my lord prince.” Clever girl, uttering the honorific with a slight twist in its accent to turn a prince into a lucky, full-tailed cat. “And the Hundreds are most proper and upright, just what a young lady should read and take to heart.”
“Only if she wishes to be bored past measure.” He doubted she had read Khao’s collected works, for all her scholarship. The library of Shan’s palace had held a dusty copy tucked far back in a cobwebbed corner; both he and Kiron had perused it at length for the annotations and small drawings a former student of great boredom and a little artistic skill had made in the margins. “Where is your third chick today, my lady eggfowl?”
“Gonwa Eulin has been called to her aunt’s for tea this afternoon.” The lady folded her work, an operation that did not need thought if a woman practiced her proper occupation often enough. She did not halt halfway through and look into the distance this time; there was no glimmer of salt water burgeoning in those ghostly eyes, and the shadows under them had eased somewhat. Komor Yala’s chin set in its accustomed fashion, and she regarded him levelly. “Am I to take it you are inquiring after her, then?”
“Careful.” The sly intimation of matchmaking was intended to irritate him in turn, and much of Takshin’s black mood fled outright, vanishing from its liver-cage. “You sound a jealous auntie.”
“I must make certain the ladies in my care are properly chaperoned.” Now her gaze outright gleamed, and her movements quickened. “And you, Third Prince, have an ill reputation.”
“Entirely deserved,” he assured her. “But no, I have no interest in Lady Gonwa’s niece; imagine, having such a court gossip married into your affairs.”
“So it is Lady Gonwa you are after instead?” his Khir minx inquired, sweetly. “I shall be certain to compliment you to her, to smooth your way.”
Su Junha lifted her sleeve again, this time to catch a laugh she could not quite swallow in time. Yala’s mouth twitched, and Takshin mock-glowered at both of them, beetling his brows and finishing the glare with a monster’s face as if they were children still in the nursery, eager for a story and a scare.
“Careful,” Su Junha burst out, “or it will freeze that way.” She darted a glance at Yala, gauging the reaction, and their lady smiled fully this time.
The last vestige of his usual, damnable bleakness fled Garan Takshin, and he arranged his expression into one quite proper and more soothing. “It might be an improvement,” he said, lightly. “Do you think so, Lady Junha?”
“It certainly cannot get any worse.” She glanced again at Y
ala, whose mouth did not turn down at the corners.
No, their lady’s eyes all but sparkled, albeit briefly, and it appeared Komor Yala was hard-put not to grin.
They thought they could play with him, and he was more than willing if it eased a certain pale-eyed girl. “I like this one,” he said abruptly, indicating the Su girl with a brief motion, hand cupped to avoid the impoliteness of a finger-spear. “She speaks truth almost as bravely as you do.”
“An indirect compliment indeed.” Yala inclined her head. A single, very plain hairpin of dark wood nested in her carefully wrapped braids; apparently the Khir did not strip themselves of that small adornment while grieving. “You grow quite skillful with their use, Third Prince.”
“It must be your influence.” Sometimes a man could allow truth, suitably disguised in a jest. “Run along, Lady Junha, and bring something sweet with tea.”
The noble girl could have bridled, for she was no kaburei or servant to be ordered about, but Lady Yala nodded acquiescence and Su Junha rose with a flutter of primrose cotton and green edging. She flowed to the door, perhaps relieved to be saved the trouble of making conversation with the worst and least polite of Garan Tamuron’s many sons.
Takshin wondered if his lord father regretted the profligate luck in siring such a brood. It was generally held to be a sign of Heaven’s favor, but if childhood misadventure or disease did not take half your descendants, they might make up for it by jostling violently in adulthood, no matter how moralists tch-tch ’d their tongues at such impropriety.
“And now we are alone,” he said, softly, “or as close to it as possible. Tell me truly, how do you fare?”
“Well enough.” If Yala disliked the intimation of their solitude bringing familiarity, she did not show it. “But surely you could have asked openly.”
“And have you gracefully deflect me? No.”
One eyebrow arched, and her almost-surprised air was charming in its own way. “Gracefully?”
“Grace is in your nature, as dissatisfaction is in mine.” Along with a certain amount of sheer stubbornness, and Garan Suon-ei Takshin had reason to be glad of both. They had, after all, kept him alive.
Yala did not search for a witticism, simply regarded him with mild interest. Mirrorlight was kind to her face, too sharp and thin for beauty but still arresting the gaze. “Are you so certain?”
Of which, little lure? “Passing sure, indeed.” Bare, uncushioned floor was uncomfortable, but he liked the sensation, as well as the phantom coolness of plain wood. In Shan the summer wind would be fluting through pierced towers before afternoon’s hush fell and a great heel of heat crushed field, town, city, and palace alike. “Now, answer me.”
“I have; I am well enough.” Steady, and unruffled. Was she bearing that sharp claw-toy of hers, hidden in her skirts? “Is it cooler in the countryside, then? I am quite ready to begin a journey tomorrow, should it be so.”
How could he tell her Takyeo would never manage retreat? His eldest brother could not leave a limb behind in the stone trap of Zhaon-An as a lizard might, to save himself.
It was not in him, as surrender was not in Takshin and cruelty was not in Yala. They were all trapped as surely by what they were as by what they were not. Such was life, that execrable burden he could have done well without.
Except if he had not been born, he would not have met her, or been able to step between her and a whip. So Takshin shrugged. “You prefer the countryside, then?”
“There is much here that reminds me…” She halted, composed herself, and fool that he was, he’d provoked sadness instead of ire.
“Of your princess.” Takshin rested his hands upon his thighs. It pleased him, though he would not settle directly before her as a retainer, to sit as one. “Yes.” Tell me what you wish for, and be quick about it so I may grant the desire. He could not say as much, though.
Or, he could, but he found he was not inclined to. Not if it caused her pain.
“You are a comfort,” Komor Yala said, folding her hands decorously in her lap. “Anyone else would avoid the subject.”
“Speak upon what eases you, then. Heaven knows I do often enough.” He could admit to his failings with equanimity, at least. The world was cruel; wearing your flaws as armor served to divert both poison and claw. If he struck himself first, others were reduced to throwing flowers.
Komor Yala leaned forward slightly, which meant he was helpless to avoid doing the same, a dayflower following the Sun’s great lamp. “There is a matter I would ask your aid upon,” she began, and Takshin suppressed a flare of sharp, hot satisfaction.
Finally, she had asked. “Name it, then.”
At least she did not hesitate. “I wish to—”
“Lady Komor?” Su Junha hurried from the door, her skirts swaying, and Takshin’s right hand itched for his sword. “There is a letter for you.”
“Ah.” Yala accepted a triangle of heavy pressed-paper in both hands, nodding her thanks. The seal was bare, a curious blob of indeterminate dun wax, and the outer layer held merely Komor Yala’s name in fine angular characters both like and unlike Zhaon. “How curious.” She examined it with an air of puzzlement. “It is in Khir, but is not my father’s hand.” What color she had regained now drained from her cheeks, and Takshin bit back a curse. Of course a filial daughter would fear that such a missive contained news of a parent’s ill health— or worse, censure.
“Go read it, and come back for tea.” He settled back over his heels, and had to remind himself not to glower at the Su girl for the interruption. “Or I shall be forced to frighten your chicks, eggbird.”
“Such a thing would be below your princely dignity, Takshin.” Perhaps she used his name because she was distracted; her Khir accent softened the first vowel while cutting the last short, not to mention the very fetching sharp sibilance she gave the shi. She rose, bowed hurriedly but with that exquisite grace, retreated to a small desk set partly behind a screen painted with a snow-pard upon a cliff watching peasants at harvest in a deep valley, and broke the seal, scanning the letter with a faint frown.
Tea arrived, and normally Takshin would be in no mood to linger. But Komor Yala had been about to ask him for aid, and he found he did not mind waiting.
He did not even mind attempting polite conversation with Ladies Su and Hansei, for her sake. Third Prince Takshin sat, sipped at an afternoon cup of smoke-heavy siao, stole a cake of pounded rai stuffed with crushflower-flavored mungh paste, and tried not to glance too often or too longingly in his Khir lady’s direction.
It was not, he decided, an unpleasant way to spend an afternoon.
A PRINCE AND A WOLF
The mystery was somewhat solved when she broke the seal— and deepened as well. It was not that she did not recognize the hand immediately; the sender would have to brush with his left to deceive her, and quite possibly in reverse as well as the sage Kao Luan was said to have done.
No, the riddle lay in why Ashani Daoyan would send her such a curious letter.
On the surface, of course, it was a matter of little import— a Khir merchant politely begging the favor of a noblewoman’s patronage, inviting her to send for a sample of his wares or, were she sufficiently intrigued, to visit his humble shop. She could certainly choose to take no notice, since it arrived while she was in mourning. And yet, she knew that writing, and the form of address, while plausibly supplicatory, held a few odd character choices that could be mistaken for imperfect literacy if they did not allude to certain childhood events.
He might have thought her witless from grief to need such explicit clues, or he wished to be very cautious indeed. Had her father sent Dao to collect her? Impossible, of course; he would have had to leave Khir well before Mahara’s…
Her death.
Yala tucked the refolded letter into a sleeve-pocket and stared at the desk’s glossy, well-waxed surface of fine lyong heartwood, more suitable for bows than holding paper and brushes. Here in Zhaon, luxury had come to seem somewh
at normal, and therefore ignored. Such fine wood, wasted upon a table.
The simplest solution to the puzzle was that Dao had trusted a merchant with some other more direct message, one Yala must collect discreetly, and this was a means given to said messenger to catch her attention as a lure caught a hawk’s gaze. Perhaps it was even a warning, arriving far too late— but why would a plot against Mahara be discovered in Khir?
It was the first moment since the dreadful afternoon of her princess’s last ride that Yala felt entirely awake. Her liver settled in its proper place with a thump so loud she was mildly surprised nobody else in the room noticed, and her head was not mazed with dreadful, devouring weight lingering behind eyelids and filling her throat at odd moments. Her gaze fell upon the Third Prince as he accepted Su Junha’s trembling pour of siao into his drained cup with a very proper nod. He was even taking pains to put the two ladies at their ease, and Hansei Liyue was carrying the burden of conversation as adroitly as her own caution of his temper would allow.
Perhaps if Yala appealed to his sense of justice…or of mischief? He was very much indeed like her Baiyan, who would enter the fray for some matter of pride, or, more often, for the sheer fun of it. If Bai was here, Yala’s yue could have remained safely in its sheath.
But her beloved damoi was smoke upon the wind, riding the Great Plains like her princess. There was no use in wondering what he would say of these events, or of a certain Zhaon general who was proving to be a steady ally she could ask for a measure of aid in discovering who had paid for a royal death.